


Lanterns

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Callista can't really handle her wine, Drunken liaison, F/F, Kink Meme, but I swear it's all consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wine makes Callista unusually romantic, and Cecelia welcomes any distraction from scrubbing the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme prompt requesting the usually reserved Callista drinking wine and becoming very _friendly_ with Cecelia.

"And then she says to me, she says, 'Callista, will I be able to eat cake _every day_?', and I tell her yes, because that poor girl's had so little joy in her life..."

"She's a sweet girl; I don't think a few white lies are going to hurt her." Cecelia swipes a cloth across the bar and glares at her handiwork. It won't shine. She's tried everything, but the fingerprints and mysterious stains and those damn scorch marks just won't budge. Why do people feel it necessary to extinguish cigars on the _bar_? Though the way things are, it's as likely as not that they do it just to make more work for her.

 

Across the bar, Callista sways on her chair, staring into her wine. "I can't stand that term. _White lies_. It's just a- a cowardly way of avoiding the reality of matters. I hate that. I hate being cowardly." She lifts her glass, takes a sip, and places it back down with an undue care that says she won't be needing another. Cecelia's seen all kinds of drunks, and Callista isn't quite there yet, and even when she is you'll only know it from the extra care in her speech, a slight loss in her train of thought. There are worse ways to indulge.

 

The burn is there to stay, and she knows it wasn't present last week. " _I_ hate people who think it's fine to wreck the bar with their cigars. We have ashtrays, I empty them every night, why is it so difficult?" Another energetic scrub with her ragged cloth yields a predictable lack of result, and she almost throws the thing aside in irritation. "I _know_ it was the Admiral. He always sits here."

 

"He doesn't understand," Callista says sympathetically, leaning over to lightly rub the mark with a fingertip. It's only adding to the smears, but Cecelia doesn't say anything; truth be told, she appreciates the gesture, and the company. Out of everyone, Callista alone greets her every day, asks how she is, stops to listen, and if she's not busy she'll even help with chores at the same time. She's a _treasure_ , and it's a wonder nobody's swept her off for marriage and motherhood yet. Though the plague's killed off enough people that they can probably both afford to be picky. Now isn't that a novelty?

 

"It's stuck. We'll probably all be dead and buried, and Havelock's cigar stain will still be right here where he put it, mocking our memory." This time Cecelia really does throw the cloth somewhere across the room, and though it means she'll just have to pick it up later the small rebellion still feels good.

Callista watches it fly past, giggling slightly. She never does that. She barely _smiles_ as far as Cecelia knows, but if two glasses of wine are all that's required to make it happen, she'll provide them as often as possible. Callista's mouth is made for smiles.

 

"Maybe Havelock will trip and fall on it; that would save your poor bar from any further abuse." She has nice eyes too, and they crinkle at the corners when she's happy. Cecelia tries not to stare.

"But then we'll be left with a headless conspiracy," she says, as reasonably as possible, "like a headless chicken, only worse because _we_ have Pendleton."

"We could toss him out." Callista leans forward with a conspirational smile and sparkling eyes, and Cecelia quickly tugs her almost empty wine glass to safety. "Everyone else could leave too, and then we'd be free to reopen this place, as a..." Words fail her momentarily, and she reaches for her glass again. "Something. Something better."

 

"I'd like that," Cecelia says, and utterly fails to keep her eyes off Callista's. It's going to get awkward soon, the staring, but with luck that wine will make her less likely to take offense. Outsider let it be so. She clears her throat, and casts about for a different topic. Of course, as is always the case, what she finds is no improvement. "Why aren't you married? I mean, it just seems like you would be, you're perfect. How is it that you haven't got yourself a nice man with money to spare?"

 

Oh, it's worse than worse. She ought to listen when Lydia tells her she has nothing of importance to say, and should keep her mouth shut. Why doesn't she ever listen?

"Why haven't _you_?" Callista drains the glass, and carefully hands it over to Cecelia for safekeeping. She's a sweet drunk, as considerate as ever, if a bit less reserved. That's not a bad thing though, and neither is the pink flush spreading across her cheeks.

 

Cecelia places the glass under the bar (she'll clean it later, it would be rude to do so now). "I'm not really meant for that kind of life. Born under bad stars and things, that's me. I'm a little...skewed, if you know what I mean." If Callista doesn't understand, she'll get nothing plainer. Wine offers no certainty of clouded memories in the morning, and it's not worth the risk for a pair of clever eyes and a bright pink blush.

 

Strong fingers, too. They grip Cecelia's chin and lift her head so the clever eyes can look into her stupid ones, and read her secrets. Neither of them speaks for a little too long, though maybe it's just the sweat beading on her palms that makes it feel like hours.

"You have lovely freckles," Callista says, and Cecelia blinks at her and feels slower than ever.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, no, you shouldn't be sorry, they're wonderful." Callista takes her face between very steady hands, and strokes her cheeks with very steady thumbs. "Do you know how many there are?"

 

She says it all as though it's a sensible thing to ask, like 'how many Isles are there in the Empire', or 'what are the uses for whale oil'.

"I...no, I don't know." Cecelia has listened in on Callista's lessons with Lady Emily, and she could have answered questions on geography, and some history, and her sums are much better than she'll let on to Lydia, and now she looks like a fool. How very typical.

"I could count them for you?" The hands on her cheeks are very warm, and Cecelia closes her eyes. She didn't ask, she'd never have asked, but a thumb brushes lightly over her eyelashes anyway.

 

"They're like fire," Callista says; it takes a moment for Cecelia to work out what she's talking about.

"They're like _carrots_ ," she mumbles, and scrunches her eyes tighter when her head is gently tugged forward for closer inspection.

"No," Callista decides firmly. "No, they're like fire, and your hair is too. Like the fires in the Fugue Feast lanterns. Please may I touch your hair?"

 

It would take a stronger woman than Cecelia to refuse, but she keeps her eyes closed and blindly fumbles her cap off. Somehow, that makes it seem better. Less like she's taking advantage. They stay closed as her fringe is caressed, precise fingers careful not to tug too hard. This is a woman's touch, and she's painfully aware of the fact.

 

Callista smells faintly of roses. It lingers on the skin of her wrists, on her neck as she leans in closer. She must have some special soap, or a little perfume, squirreled away from better times. She ought to have sold it; that would have been sensible. But she is human, and she kept it. Does it make her half as happy as it's making Cecelia?

 

"Lanterns," Callista murmurs, a little too close. "Don't argue, please. It's very beautiful."

"So are you," Cecelia says blindly, and clenches her fists under the bar so she won't be tempted to do some touching of her own. She mustn't. She very much wants to.

 

A better woman would tug away, instead of submitting pliantly to the way her head is tilted, and her lips part to taste wine on Callista's tongue. But Cecelia is common, as Lydia never lets her forget, and it seems now she and Callista have something in common, and it's loneliness. What an odd thing to share, she thinks, and how unfair of her to sit still, fists clenched in her own lap, leaving Callista to do all the work.

 

It's not fair at all, and so she reaches over the bar and clumsily wraps her arms around Callista's neck. Now they both look silly, and it's very nice indeed.

 

Callista after two glasses of wine is the same methodical woman as Callista before, only without whatever barrier she's built up in her head that would normally make her stop this. She's methodical in undoing Cecelia's hair from its string tie, methodical in stroking it out to touch her shoulders, and simultaneously methodical in kissing every protest off Cecelia's tongue.

 

There were never many protests to begin with.

 

Around the time her back begins to protest from the very enthusiastic leaning she's making it do, she feels the other woman slowing down, not quite a prelude to tugging away, but a hint at least. That's fine. Fine as the strands of Callista's hair, or her tapered brows-

 

Actually, it's not fine at all, but Cecelia lets her go as gracefully as possible. She's breathing too quickly, and separating hurts in a deeper way than the backache she's so used to. That's bad. Disappointments are a common thing, by now they shouldn't sting.

 

Then Callista grabs her by the collar and tries to drag her over the bar.

"Stop-you'll choke me, wait!"

"Why are you on the wrong _side_?" Callista demands, and the vexed...bossiness in her voice prompts Cecelia to do a Very Bad Thing, which would earn her a beating on any given day, but that doesn't matter now. Callista won't tell. She grabs the edge of the bar and climbs over it; if her knees or hands leave prints on the sticky surface, nobody will know.

 

"This way," Callista says firmly once she's on the correct side. It's the way she talks when she's on sure footing and will suffer no protests; even the Admiral will back down when Callista is firm. She tugs on the collar of Cecelia's shirt, and following her across the room is the most natural thing in the world, though where exactly they're going is-

oh. Oh, yes. That _is_ sensible.

 

Much better than leaning over the bar, so Cecelia lets herself be hauled to a booth; it takes no prompting at all for her to perch on the edge of the slightly sticky table. That wine must be strong indeed, because all she's had is the taste off Callista's tongue, but it leaves her bold enough to wrap her legs around the backs of the other woman's thighs to keep her close.

 

They'll surely be found out. It's a _pub_ , and with the Admiral just upstairs, and Lord Pendleton up at all hours sneaking extra whiskey when he thinks he won't be caught, and Corvo coming and going like he can't tell night from day anymore, they'll be caught. Any time now. The thought scares her a little, but it's not all fear, and she tugs at Callista's clothes with an anxious enthusiasm that's new and addictive.

 

There's a certain amount of disappointment in finding that Callista is wearing a corset (but it's not odd, she's a proper lady, she _ought_ to think of her figure, but Cecelia herself has never been worth much, so she never bothered with one), and she gives a frustrated sigh.

Callista hears her, of course, and makes a similar sound, though her fingers don't once stop in their steady path down Cecelia's buttons. "Sorry, it's a _ridiculous_ thing, I've never understood why we have to wear them-"

"I don't," Cecelia tells her shyly, and it's all worth it for the elation on Callista's face when she sees the truth of the matter. And useless, corset-less Cecelia has never considered herself all that desirable (there are no mirrors for her to look in anyway, this is a _pub_ , and she's not vain enough to go stare at her own reflection in water outside) but Callista must disagree. She looks, she _admires_ , like she's admiring a painting, and she touches with fingertips first, like she's touching a vase. Something precious. It's...nice.

 

"You are so... _lovely_ ," Callista murmurs, as if she's never seen better; maybe she hasn't. They live in strange times. Maybe she's dreamed but never dared; there's a world of difference between the shy hands that cup and stroke Cecelia's breasts, and the eager mouth that stifles her gasps. For the life of her, she can't tell which to believe. But Callista is there and willing, so it must be alright to caress her thighs and fumble under the edges of her corset for heated skin. She's warm like the boilers in winter; a pleasant shock after so long in the cold.

 

"I have to know, I've been wondering since my first day here. Are you red...everywhere? All over?" Callista doesn't quite whisper the last part, but it's clear embarrassment is warring with that part of her that's done with the rules, and a definite winner is emerging. Her conflict is almost sweet to see; she fancies herself so worldly.

"You sure like knowing things," Cecelia tells her, then giggles at her consternation. "I really am, but it's nothing special."

 

"Show me." So Cecelia wriggles half out of her trousers, leaves them bunched around her knees (easier, if someone comes down the corridor she can hide that much faster without having to hunt for lost garments on the floor). And the look on Callista's face is a picture in itself; she strokes out the curly red strands with fascinated fingers, and a gleeful smile. "You're _perfect_ , and lovely, and I just want to..." she falters into silence.

 

It gets a little awkward then; Callista may pretend all she likes, but she's well-bred at heart, and wine won't make up for not knowing how to behave during a drunken assignation. And that's alright. Cecelia's got her covered. She reaches for the ties on Callista's trousers, makes a show of fumbling with them, and pulls a face at the other woman.

"Please don't be wearing a chastity belt too," she says; the humour is deliberate, but she immediately feels herself flush scarlet. And she doesn't do that by halves, or pretty-like, as Callista does; for her it's a full body blush that makes her resemble a freckled tomato.

 

Callista snorts with laughter. The sound is so unladylike that it makes Cecelia feel a bit better. "I'm certainly _not_ ," she says, and the coy note in her tone begs for further investigating.

"I don't believe you," Cecelia tells her."Prove it." She says it like a challenge, as if her hands aren't resting on Callista's hips anyway, fingers tense with the effort of waiting for permission. Next time, she thinks, they could make a game of it, dare each other to bare an inch more skin, discard one more glove, or apron, or hat, or...

 

She's so soft. Cecelia knows this for sure; wild Serkonan horses couldn't have stopped her from touching. She slips her fingers between Callista's thighs, and savours the quiet "Oh", as it's gasped into her ear. Her fingers come back wet, but she's not bold enough to lick them clean. Next time.

 

Callista draws a shuddering breath in her ear, then places gentle fingers on her thigh. They're not trembling.

 

"Now," Callista says, in a voice that would sound firm if she weren't so flushed, "I'm going to touch you too. I hope that's alright." She's practically buzzing with nerves, it's hilariously uncharacteristic, but Cecelia won't laugh. There are better things to do.

"Yes, you can...do that. Please. I mean, it would please me". She wants to sink into the ground from the shame of coming across so _shy_ , when _Callista_ should be the modest one, but there's no arguing with the results.

 

No arguing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

She's washing dishes in the pub the next morning when Callista comes to find her. They're alone again, which should be unusual given the size of the pub and the number of inhabitants, but it's not. Most everyone here is self-contained, and it's never that hard to find a place without people because nobody is that keen on company anyway. Too many secrets. Too many people sick to death of other people. There's nobody sitting in the booths, and Cecelia is free to scrub and occasionally stretch (though she checks to see if Lydia or Wallace are around first), and then suddenly she's not alone anymore.

 

"Here, let me help. It'll be much faster that way." Lady Emily must be playing, or sketching; even so, who uses their free time to help others with their chores? Nobody Cecelia knows, but she points to the cupboard where they keep their drying cloths, and Callista gets to work with her usual efficiency. It's almost eerie.

 

It's also a bit awkward, and Cecelia has never coped well with that. Normally she'd run or hide, whatever's the easiest way to avoid embarrassment, but that's not an option now. The dishes need doing, and she was here first.

 

Best to get it over with, really.

"Last night, after the wine, that was... interesting. Do you remember-"

"Yes, thank you. I do." Callista stares at the wall in front of her, working mechanically. She has such long fingers, graceful like the reeds on the waterfront. An odd thing to notice now.

"Oh. That's good?" At least the dishes give her a reason to avoid eye contact. If she's not watching she won't see the stains, and Lydia will be angry. Wallace will be even more angry, if the dirty dish finds its way to Lord Pendleton.

 

She half expects Callista to leave now they've established that nobody developed convenient memory loss, but the other woman doesn't move, and she also doesn't try to change the subject.

 "I'm not entirely sure how I got myself back to bed, though." She dries another glass with quick, efficient movements, and Cecelia doesn't stare at her wrists.

"I helped you," she says instead, and fixes her eyes on the soapy water in front of her. That's safe. She can look there. "You giggled a bit on the way, and we woke up Corvo, but I looked at him and giggled too, so now he thinks we were making fun of him."

"Oh dear. Though I think he must be used to it, from Lady Emily; he can't have been too offended."

 

Cecelia passes her another glass to dry, and if their fingers brush it's because Callista made it so.

"I guess not." She wouldn't have been offended either, come to think of it. Words are words, and people can and have called her unpleasant things, but she doesn't really mind. It's just talk, and that's worthless.

 

"Thank you," Callista says abruptly. Cecelia turns her head slightly, just enough to catch the blush spreading across her cheeks. "I can't imagine what the Admiral would have said if he'd found me asleep in the middle of the pub. Nothing pleasant, certainly."

"This is the same admiral who drinks our best whiskey and then puts his cigars out on the bar?" Callista makes a soft sound that might just have been a choked laugh. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Just checking." Smiling down at the dishes, because it wouldn't do for Lydia to come by and think she's enjoying herself too much, Cecelia wonders how to broach the question that's been hounding her since she left Callista snoring quietly under her covers. It wouldn't do to sound too eager, though modesty seems a bit silly after...

 

But Callista is well-bred, and those people tend to be odd about simple things like affection. Perhaps it's best for them both if the matter remains unmentioned; everyone here has their secrets, some more poorly kept than others, so one more won't make a difference at all. It happened, they both know it happened, and they don't ever need to talk about it again. Yes. That's the best way of handling it, to be sure.

 

"I do like you," Callista says suddenly, and Cecelia turns to stare at her disbelievingly. The other woman carefully places her drying cloth on the bench, embarrassment plain on her face. "I do very much, but you've always been so busy trying to be invisible that I don't think you even noticed. That is, I noticed you. I was looking- no, that doesn't sound right at all!"

 

She stands there wringing her hands, and Cecelia can feel the grin spreading across her own face, where it really has no place to be since there's a plague, and nobody should be happy. She deserves to be happy least of all, but here is Callista, determined to make her so. Life is strange sometimes.

"Nobody would need to know," she says carefully, keeping her eyes fixed on Callista's face in case there's been a mistake. It doesn't seem so. "Because it's really nobody's business but ours. And I like you too."

 

"Well then. That's settled." Picking up an unused drying cloth, Callista beckons for the plate Cecelia's been absently scrubbing for the last few minutes. It's very definitely clean by now, and she hadn't even noticed. Meekly, she hands it over, and reaches for a dirty mug.

 

There's a period of silence between them, comfortable and unhurried, while they work side by side and the chore is done in half the time.

"You really _do_ have lovely hair," Callista says as they return the clean dishes to their homes in various cupboards and shelves. This time, Cecelia feels no need whatsoever to hide her smile.

"Yes, you said last night. Something about Fugue Feast lanterns."

"I tend to get unnecessarily romantic after a glass of wine or so. But it's still true."

 

"Oh." She hasn't ever had that many compliments, because things said by drunken patrons have never counted, and Lydia's idea of a compliment is "that'll do". How does one even go about replying to nice things when they're said sincerely, and for free? It's a problem she can't solve with more scrubbing. "Thank you," she hazards, which seems to be the correct response. It gets her a smile in return, so even if it wasn't correct, it's a response she likes

 

Callista takes the pile of damp cloths from the bench, and they go to hang them outside together. Cecelia is good, and doesn't reach out to hold her hand as they walk, or laugh too loudly at her grumbling about Piero, or brush her hair behind her ear when a sudden breeze blows it out of place. She stares a bit, but looking is free and she is only a human. Her will is not as strong as the pull of seeing Callista's eyes in the sunlight.

 

It's a good day.


End file.
